Kids These Days

Chapter 5: Finn

"Oh. Of course..." She sounds so awkward that it makes me feel awkward. I swear, I don't usually try to guilt-trip her like this, but I can tell she still feels responsible for what happened at Lightlake, and sometimes I need to use her guilt to get away with stuff, like running off into the desert to escape my dysfunctional family. Finally, she relents. "Alright, alright, you'll be our rescue mission. But remember, if you start to feel dizzy or nauseous--"

"It's a thirty-minute jog, I'm not going to die from heat stroke." A cheesy grin spreads slowly across my face. "Although I could've died from frostbite in Alaska..."

Now mom is the one rolling her eyes like a victim in The Exorcist. "Okay, drama queen, that's enough. Don't forget your water bottle. And your quarters. Also, if you see a pack of wild dogs, don't make eye contact. Just play dead."

"What? There aren't packs of wild dogs in California."

"Yes, there are, I read about it in the Enquirer. Why would they lie?"

"The dogs? Or the magazine?"

"Well, if you see a pack of dogs, remember to play dead. They won't attack you if they think you're dead. Or diabetic."

"That's not helpful. Like, at all."

"Hey, Fish." Sarah chucks a plastic water bottle at my head. "Think quick."

The bottle clips me in the earlobe and rolls under the sofa.

"That wasn't very nice," Henry chides. "You should've thrown him one of the bottles in the fridge. Then his water would be chilled."

"Once again, not helpful."

One of the Twins-- Maureen, I think-- sidles up to me and asks, "Which pair of socks do you think you'll miss the least?"

It takes all my self-control not to hurl a water bottle at Maureen's gap-toothed grin. "If you one of you little miscreants set fire to my socks, I'll feed you to a pack of wild dogs."

Mom sighs. "Finn, don't threaten your sisters. Maureen, don't burn your brother's socks. I think, in a crisis like this, we need to stick together as a family--"

"What about his underwear?"

"No."

"His beanie? C'mon, it's ugly."

"Once again, no."

"My beanie is not ugly!" I shout. "Fifteen percent of proceeds go to the Sierra Club."

"Doesn't mean it's not ugly, moron."

I roll my eyes and stomp out the door. When I finally escape the confines of the Winnebago, I can't lose myself in the desert fast enough.

***

Imagine the town in an old Hollywood Western film. Now, imagine if that town had a drive-in theater, a PayLess drug store, and liquor stores on every block; then, add a few ominous billboards advertising the Second Coming of Jesus Christ and Roseanne, and boom, you've got Dusty Valley. It's dusty, it's shitty, and it's the closest thing I've got to a home.

I jog for about twenty minutes in the direction of the nearest payphone, a graffitied glass booth on the outskirts of town. When the wind blows, hot and coarse against my face, I can smell the creosote and car exhaust and barbecue smoke. God, I'd sell my soul for some Santa Maria-style BBQ after three long days on the road. (Vegetarian, of course.)

The windows of Main Street burn apricot-orange in the distance, reminding me that it's almost sundown, and I'm running on a road with no street lights. I pick up the pace, thinking of all the people heading home from work, the cashiers and the tour guides and the ranchers, and my old buddies, Andy and Oliver.